


Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare: I- Section

by TravelingOsprey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Explicit Language, Feels, Gore, Graphic Description, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Inquisitors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Sort Of, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 04:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12623712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingOsprey/pseuds/TravelingOsprey
Summary: Evelyn Wick is an American reporter covering the London Blitz, just trying to do a bit of good, and make some sense of a world gone mad. When a chance meeting and an unfortunately placed bomb throws her into the center of a dangerous  Nazi plot, she will be recruited into a very particular branch of the SOE (Codename: Inquisition) with a colorful cast of characters.A Dragon Age Inquisition World War II AU





	Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare: I- Section

London- April 16 1941

 

It had been over a month since London had had a major air raid. A month free of the wail of sirens, and the drone of German Messerschmitts. A month without wondering which neighbors, friends, co-workers or familiar passersby would be gone come the morning. Despite the incredible fortitude of the stalwart British spirit, the toll of the nightly terror of living in a city under-siege was deeply felt. You could see in people’s eyes, in the way they walked. The past month had been a desperately needed respite, London had a chance to breath and the exhaustion that hung on the city begun to wane. Winter was finally gone and today’s bright and sunny day had given away to a warm and clear night, lit by a full moon. Normally a full moon would have filled London with dread, clear bright nights made it easy for the bombers. But not tonight. Tonight you could feel the vitality in the air. London was in a good mood.

 

But I wasn’t.

 

I should have been, standing as I was inside the Savoy; that glittering establishment that had an ebullient atmosphere no matter how the rest of London was faring. Even in wartime, the Savoy hotel had impeccably suited bellboys and tuxedoed waiters to greet and serve customers. The elegantly furnished rooms conveniently forgot the 5 inch line on the baths for wartime water rations, and liquor never seemed to be in short supply. If you had the cash to pay, one could wait out the war in style. With it’s steel frame, deep and lavish air-raid shelters, it was also arguably one of the safest buildings in London. It even boasted underground restaurants and dancing. When the locale and band wasn’t loud enough to drown out the anti-aircraft fire and the bombs the musicians simply incorporated the percussion of the Blitz into the music, and patrons continued to dance the night away. Once inside the Savoy, it was said, the war might as well be a million miles away. Frankly, that’s what I didn’t like about the place.

 

Many of my fellow American reporters had installed themselves inside the savoy. Living and often working from the lavish suites. I, on the other hand, never felt quite at home there. It felt like a betrayal somehow to live like the war was worlds away, when everyone else had the war delivered to their doorstep nightly. I had covered the air-raid shelters extensively, I knew how ghastly the conditions where for many of London’s residents, the poorest especially. Plus, women reporters weren’t given the elaborate expense accounts most male reporters were. I couldn’t afford a room at the Savoy. Instead I shared a flat with my two best friends. One, Hera Adaar, was a reporter for a different paper, the other, Lana Lavellan, was trauma nurse, who hailed from Cardiff. All three of us spent our days confronting the bloody horrors of the Blitz up-close. A reality many of those at Savoy avoided.

 

But the luxuriant willful ignorance of the Savoy was not why I was in a foul mood tonight. No my boss, Mr. Roderick, was the cause of that.

 

 “Absolutely not.” The jowly old man growled at me over top his cocktail.

 

“But Mr. Roderick, I speak the language. I could…”

 

“Which language is that exactly? German or French?” He spat

 

“Both.” I fired back. Adding belatedly. “Sir.” He let out a sigh of heavily tried patience, and I pressed on. “The AP still have reporters there. There are important stories to be told, and I really think...”

 

“No Miss Wick” He cut me off “I don’t believe you were thinking. It is a completely nutty idea. I hate to even have women reporting from _here_ in London, much less occupied territory.”

I pursed my lips to refrain making any smart ass comments about his opinions on women reporters. “My request is to go in to Vichy France not _Occupied_ France.”

 

“You and I both know that is a distinction without a difference.”

 

“Which Is why we need someone over there to tell that story sir. If the U.S. public can be made to understand the horrors of what it is like living under Nazi control, even in areas that are supposedly ‘self-governing’. Pétain…”

 

Roderick scoffed “You sound like Murrow and his boys.” Unlike the famed Murrow, Roderick had defeatist tendencies. He seemed to think it was only a matter of time before Britain fell and he didn’t think it was a good idea for the US to get involved. He was far from alone in this attitude. I, on the other hand, was a great admirer of Edward R. Murrow.

 

“Well Murrow has a point, and by the way one of those Murrow boys is a _woman_.” Mary Breckinridge was an acquaintance of mine. The women reporters of London, had formed a sort of community. Bonding over the duel war we fought. The actual war, against the Germans, and the one we fought everyday to be able to report the war.

 

 “You wouldn’t be able to get the story you want” He said simply, taking a long slow sip from his cocktail. “Do you know why the Nazis still allow the AP to report, when most other western news organizations have been banned?” That question caught me off guard. I shook my head. “Its because the AP agreed to play by their rules. Every word you wrote every photograph you took would have to pass through their censors.” He continued pointing at the camera that hung off my shoulder. I never went anywhere without a camera.

 

“I could always be discreet; the Nazi authorities wouldn’t need to know…”

 

“and when you where caught” I noticed that he didn’t even give me the benefit of saying _if._ He assumed my getting caught was a certainty, a matter of time. “You would get arrested. Best case scenario after a harrowing few days, or weeks, or months in prison they would deport you back to the states. Worse case scenario, you would be accused of being a spy or a terrorist. Have you any conception of what would happen to you then?” He asked. _Torture and death?_ My brain supplied. I had spent to much time reading about the regime to think they abided by any rules of decency.  “I wouldn’t even send a man over there, much less a women.” Roderick continued, with no small amount of condescension.

 

I bristled “I fail to see why It would be any MORE dangerous for a woman.”

 

Roderick gave me a cold look then drained his cocktail glass, and snapped at the impeccably outfitted bartender for another, before he turned back to me.

 

“You’re a plucky gal miss Wick. I will give you that, but my answer is no.”

 

“Yes Sir.” I said, sourness seeping into the edges of my voice. I hated being called plucky. As complimentary as that superlative was it never failed to be patronizing. _Men_ were brave, or tough; clever or resourceful. _Women_ were plucky. We had moxy or gumption. Wasn’t it cute we didn’t want to stay in the typing pool. ~~~~

“Now why don’t you enjoy your evening, have a drink, fill out your dance card. I will see you at the office tomorrow morning.” Roderick cajoled. Then went in pursuit of the bartender he had snapped at before, who had yet to provide him with another martini. _No doubt Roderick was one of that bartender’s favorite customers._ I thought sarcastically letting out a long slow breath to try and drain out the bitter feeling rising up in my chest.

 

“It’s a shame.” Said a deep voice to my left.

 

“Sorry?” I asked, turning to face the stranger that had addressed me. He looked vaguely familiar though I couldn’t have said why. He didn’t strike me as the sort who you would forget meeting. He was stocky and strawberry blonde, with stubble on his square jaw and a scar across the bridge of his nose. He had a fedora perched at a jaunty angle on his head and his dress shirt was worn without a tie and with one too many buttons undone. The whole ensemble gave him a roguish air, that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Hollywood film.

 

“I couldn’t help but overhear.” The stranger said, with only a hint of apology in his tone. He had a North American accent, Pacific Northwest or British Columbia if I had to guess, but it had been worn smooth by time abroad. “It’s a shame, your editor or boss or whomever didn’t give you approval to go and get your story. I would have liked to read it.”

 

I frowned. “I can’t tell if you are making fun of me or not.” He had a hard to read face, and _no one_ besides me had thought me reporting from the continent was a good idea. I wasn’t even one hundred percent on it myself, if I was being honest. It _was_ exceedingly dangerous.  

 

“You wound me.” He said with a chuckle. “I was being entirely sincere. Here…” He reached into his pile of papers and extracted a week old copy of _The Conclave_ , the paper that I worked for, and plopped it down in front of me, and pointed to an article entitled “Last Hope Island”, specifically the byline in which my name was printed in neat typeface. _Evelyn O. Wick._ “That’s you isn’t it?” I nodded, surprised that he had found it, buried as it was in the dregs of the paper, where my articles- no matter how important- usually got shunted. “European escapees join Britain in its stand against Hitler… ragtag heroes with resplendent spirits.” He quoted. “I always liked a ragtag hero… It’s a good article, great photos, you got talent.”

 

I frowned again. Usually when men, had something to say on the topic of my journalistic career, it wasn’t particularly flattering. When it was positive, the flatter in question was usually blatantly trying to trip me into bed. But as far as I could tell this man wasn’t working an angle, he actually knew my work and genuinely liked it, which made this encounter unprecedented.

 

“Thanks” I answered lamely. Then in an effort to recover. “But you have the advantage of me Mister …?”

 

“Varric Tethras,” He said extending his hand. “Rogue, storyteller and occasionally unwelcome tag-along” He said with a smile that indicated the latter label was some sort of joke I wasn’t in on.  

 

“Ahh” I said as I returned the handshake. _That is why he looked familiar._ I had seen his portrait on the jacket of his many books. Varric Tethras was a famous – or perhaps notorious was the more fitting word - author and adventurer, whose books were wildly popular on both sides of the pond. “Hard in Hightown? The Tale of the Champion?”

 

“Yep that’s me.”

 

“Well then I can honestly return your compliments Mr. Tethras, I am a fan of your works.”

 

“Much obliged, and please call me Varric. Mr. Tethras makes me sound like my father.” And he gave a shudder that suggested that being mistaken for his father was the worst fate that could befall him.

 

“I … Um… I am sorry about your friend Hawke.” Last week the news had broke that Garrett Hawke, the youngest flying ace of the great war and subject of Varric’s book ‘Tale of the Champion’ was officially MIA, his plane having gone down over enemy territory in Nazi occupied France.

 

Varric raised an eyebrow. “You heard about that huh? Ahh you’re a news gal I guess you would have.” I flagged down the bartender and ordered an old-fashioned.

 

“So where you from?” Varric quired

 

“California.”

 

“A west coaster! I’m from Vancouver myself.”

 

“But you have spent a good deal of time abroad.” 

 

“Guilty as charged.” He conceded. “Know that from my books?”

 

“And your accent, I have a good ear.”

 

“Speaking of, where did a nice little American girl like you learn German?” He asked, eyebrows quirked. _Well he had been eavesdropping for quite while then..._

 

“Stanford.” I answered, a little sharply.

 

“Ahh…” He said, surprisingly free of judgment.  “So how many languages do you speak then?”

 

“Five, including English.”

 

“So English, French, German…”

 

“Italian and Spanish.” I finished as the bartender handed over my cocktail and I paid.

 

“You gotta admit no one in London does a better cocktail than the American Bar at the Savoy.” Varric said

 

“But?” I asked impishly.

 

“But? What makes you think there is a but?”

 

I grinned, and gave a coy shrug. There definitely had been an unspoken _but_ in that sentence.

 

“Alright.” Varric relented “ _But,_ I much prefer a traditional English pub. The warmer the ale, the and grimmer the bar the better.”

 

 I laughed. “A pub is more my speed, though I have to disagree about warm beer.” I said wrinkling my nose.

 

“Stay here long enough Blue and you will get used to the terrible coffee, warm beer and excellent tea.”

 

“Blue?”

 

“Yea, if you have read _The Tale of the Champion_ you’ll know I give everyone of my acquaintance nicknames.”

 

“You’ve known me all of what? Two minutes?”

 

“I have the eyes of a story teller.” He grinned

 

“Okay I’ll bite why Blue?”

 

“Has anyone ever told you your eyes are like sapphires?”

 

“Not in so many words.” My eyes were my most remarked upon feature. Possibly because the rest of my features weren’t particularly remarkable. I was a medium height, and a medium build with medium brown hair and a medium complexion, that was interrupted by a smattering of freckles across bridge of my nose and cheekbones, that I wasn’t at all fond of.

 

“Well you do Blue, you have sapphire eyes.” He smiled. Damned if he didn’t know how to spin a yarn. No wonder he and his books were so popular.

 

Our conversation was interrupted by a call from behind me. “Evelyn!”  I turned to see the towering figure of my friend Hera moving through the crowd towards me accompanied by my colleague Edric Cadash. I gave them a friendly wave.

 

“Friends of yours?” Varric asked. I nodded. “Mr. Tethras may I introduce my friend Ms. Hera Addar and my colleague Mr. Cadash. Hera, Edric this is Varric Tetharas.

 

Varric extended his hand and gave out two firm handshakes. “Please call me Varric.” He said warmly.

 

I had to repress a smile at the slightly gob smacked expression on Cadash’s face. I liked Edric more than all my other reporting colleagues at The Conclave. He was my best friend among them, probably because he didn’t give me any the usual crap I got at as lady at the office. He was half a head shorter than me with a wide grinning face, a well groomed black beard, and a distinctive New England accent. Perhaps because of his diminutive stature, he had a wicked sense of humor and could easily insert himself into almost any crowd with a rough but endearing grace. However, his usual quick wit and charm were lost in front of the notorious Mr. Tethras.

 

“Edric, pleased to meet you.” he practically stammered, in response to Varric’s hand shake.

 

“You two also in the news business?” Varric asked politely

 

Hera nodded “They are with _The Conclave_. I am with the _Times._ ” She said, with much more dignity than Edric had managed. Hera was striking, with a statuesque beauty and elegant curves fit for haute couture. She had a quiet but forceful presence that combined with her formidable mind, could command almost any room. She had already been to the continent and saw action in Poland and France in 1939. She was right on the on the front lines when the Germans came knocking and had gotten out in the nick of time. She was a fearless English woman, through and through. Like me, she also got labeled “Plucky” a lot.

 

“Well am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Varric smiled, “But I am afraid I must be going. I’m here on business, not pleasure, and the merchant’s guild can’t be avoided forever.” He smiled and drained his drink, scooped up the stack of papers by his side and strode out of the room; calling over his shoulder “See you around Blue.” ~~~~

“Holy Shit,” Edric cursed, giving no mind to the mixed company “How did you meet Varric Tetharas?”

 

“Oh never mind that!” Hera said with frustration. “How did your meeting with Roderick go? Should we rush home and pack a bag?” I made a disgusted noise in the back of my throat and took a big swig of my drink. “That well huh?” Hera said “Sorry sweetie.”

 

“Well I am not sure what you expected Miss Wick.” Edric said cavalierly “It was a pretty wild notion.”

 

I glared at him. “Its not like I would be the only American reporter over there.” I insisted, slightly petulant.

 

“Well I am not fond the idea of you getting into anything dangerous.” I raised my eyebrows at him. Danger and safety had become slippery notions over the past year or so, courtesy of the Luftwaffe. “Well you know, more than we do already.” He amended.

 

“Cadash I think you had better stop talking, you have dug yourself in quite deep enough.”  Hera remarked wryly

 

“Touché” He replied “Perhaps I can make it up to with a dance” His said, recovering his impish charm and dipping into a little courtly bow before me. I hesitated, part of me just wanting to go home and call it a day. “Please? Relax a little! It is a gorgeous evening!” He said wiggling his eyebrows. ~~~~

“Oh alright” I said, giving into a grin and being pulled along by his good humor. It _was_ a beautiful evening.

“Great.” Edric smiled and tucking my arm into his, and taking Hera’s arm in his other. Together, we found the dance floor.

***

A half hour, and several dances later, Hera and I were powdering our noses, while Edric and a handsome naval officer who had been Hera’s partner fetched drinks. There were always handsome man swarming around Hera.

 

 “I’m sorry Roderick shut you down.” Hera said quietly “I know you wanted to get across the channel.”

 

“You don’t think I am crazy do you? For wanting to go, while they are still letting some American news outlets report?”

 

“Of course you’re crazy.” She said with a wink “We do go in for a bit of crazy here.”

 

“Hey you were over there!” I said, trying to swallow a smile and affecting an offended tone,

 

“Yes. And it was crazy.”

 

“Oh pffff, you loved it.” I said

 

“No.” She said, her playful manner breaking suddenly “No, it was horrible.” The ebullient smile was totally gone, and her eyes were unfocused, seeing something that wasn’t there. Hera still sometimes had nightmares about the things she saw in Warsaw.  I reached for her hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze.

 

“Would you still go? If you had to do it all over again?” I asked. She blinked, coming out of her melancholy reverie and patted my hand lightly.

 

“Yes. I would.” She said quietly but firmly. A long comfortable silence stretched between us. “God willing, I will go again, if… No, _when_ our boys take back France, and Belgium, and Poland, and all the rest the Hitler stole, I want to be there.” Hera was tough as nails and bubbling over with dark humor and wry wit, but underneath it all she was an optimist. No matter what the government told the public, Britain was losing and currently standing alone against storm. The nation was holding on by its fingernails and force of will. The fact that Hera believed, unflinchingly, in a future where Britain beat back the Third Reich was testament to her idealism.

 

“Maybe I will join you.” I smiled

 

“That would be something, wouldn’t it!” Hera beamed. “Assuming you Yankees ever actually join in.”

 

I rolled my eyes, this was a horse we had beaten dead long ago. “You know the political situation for Roosevelt is tricky.”

 

She sighed with mock exasperation “Americans… always late for a war.”

 

“Twice is hardly a pattern.” I said. We moved towards the door the led out of the restroom. Hera opened her mouth to respond to my quip but I shushed her.

 

There were low male voices coming from outside. They weren’t speaking English.

 

It wasn’t unusual to hear other languages in London. The city was awash in the displaced of Europe who had managed to escape the maw of the Nazi machine. Many had given up literally everything to continue the fight from England. The Polish troops called Britain  "Last Hope Island". London had become a become the de-facto capital of free Europe, housing six governments in exile, plus De Gaulle.  Bombed out or no the city was alive with cosmopolitan verve. It _was_ unusual, however to hear German, spoken in London. Still normally I would have shrugged it off. There were plenty of refugees in England. No use being xenophobic… but the tone that they were using made the hair stand up on the back of my neck and my palms sweat. There was something off… furtive about the way they spoke.

 

Hera closed her mouth looking slightly offended by my reprimand for an instant, until she heard them too. Then her face took on a perturbed expression. She looked at me and mouthed “German?”

 

I nodded. They were speaking quietly so the words were hard to make out, but the snippets that I was catching weren’t very comforting. Something about a taking a prisoner, and a ritual, something divine, an orb, an anchor. _Was this code for something?_ Whatever it was it definitely was criminal in nature.

 

The voices suddenly ceased as loud girlish giggles approached. Me and Hera barely managed to duck out of the way of the door as a group of young, laughing debutantes entered the restroom clearly drunk.

 

“Oh do excuse me.” One girl said as she steered her way around us.

 

“Here follow my lead” Hera hissed

 

She took my arm and leaned on me as if she was quite drunk. Together we exited the restroom. I imitated her, affected my best approximation of being tipsy. There were only two people in the hallway near the ladies’ restroom that the voices could have been coming from. One was a young mousy looking waiter, in an ill fitting but formal tuxedo, the other was tall fair and dapperly dressed. Upon seeing us exit the loo, the two men had adopted a false but fairly convincing aurora of nonchalance.

 

“I do believe Edric fancies you.” Hera said in an exaggerated whisper, slurring her words to play into our cover.

 

“We work together.” I squeaked, not having to fake looking flustered. Wondering for an instant if this was true or if Hera had invented it so the men would dismiss us as dumb ingénues. It was hard enough being a woman in this job, getting involved with male colleges…

 

“Relax dear, just making an observation. I never said you had to fancy him back.” Hera said with a teasing smile.

 

The two men seemed to buy our little guise but didn’t continue their conversation. Instead they split up, with the waiter moving towards some tables, while the dapper gentleman moved back towards the bar. I tried to watch them without _looking_ like I was looking. Then something occurred to me in a flash. _My camera!_

 

“You know we dress up so rarely! Hera we should get a picture to commemorate the evening!”

 

“Good Idea” She said flashing a grin and catching on immediately. She looked around the waiter was still loitering by the tables. “How about over here?” she said pointing to the area where the waiter was. “By these potted palms?” She said.

 

“Perfect!” I answered and grabbed by camera. Hera mugged for the camera, posing by a row of plants. I lined up the camera, ostensibly pointing it at her but really focusing it over her shoulder at the mystery waiter and snapping a couple quick pictures.

 

“Did you get it?” She said walking over to me and tucking her arm into my own.  Then more quietly so only I could hear her. “Gentleman number two is leaving.” She said jerking her head over her shoulder “should we follow him?”

 

I nodded. “I think so, they said something about a prisoner. I think someone is about to get hurt.”

 

Hera’s face paled slightly but she gave a resolute nod.  As we walked towards the exit in pursuit of the mysterious dapper gentleman. “Hey!” Edric’s voice called out from behind us.  As he half jogged over balancing three drinks in his hands. “Where are you off to?”

 

“Home!” I said a little too quickly and loudly. Edric’s eyes narrowed. But before he could object Hera plucked a glass from his hand. Drained it in one long pull and gave him a terrifying smile.

 

“Cadash, Shut up, Smile and leave with us now.”

 

“What the…” He started.

 

“ _Now._ ” Hera hissed thorough her smile, in a tone that brooked no argument. Edric frowned but did as he was bid. Even having the presence of mind to adopt Hera’s smiling façade. The three of us walked to the exit, and took the stairs up to the lobby in time to see the mysterious man moving towards the doors of the lobby.

 

“Seriously.” Edric said, having tucked my arm through his like a gentleman. “What is going on?”

 

“We heard two men speaking German outside the ladies.”

 

“What?!” He said almost too loudly, then catching himself returned to a whisper. “What were they saying?”

 

“Didn’t catch everything, they were speaking very quietly. But they said something about a prisoner, and some other ominous phrases that might have been code.” _What else could allusions to orbs or anchors have been?_

 

“Bloody hell.” Edric swore “And we are running away?” He said almost hopefully.

 

“No, we are in pursuit.” I said nodding to the gentleman in front of us who coat tails were just now disappearing out of the lobby door into the moonlight night.

 

Edric sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

 

The night was bright and beautiful when we stepped outside. London’s streets were busier than they normally would have been on a Wednesday night. Full of people taking advantage of the full moon, and warm evening air.

 

The full moon also gave us enough light by which to find our quarry. I spotted the blonde head of the man walking swiftly away from the hotel.

 

“There!” I said pointing. Weaving my way through the pedestrians.

 

 “You know I love your zeal ladies, but what are we going to do if we catch him?”

 

“Don’t be thick, were not going to make a citizen’s arrest or anything.” Hera said. “We just need to see where he goes then we can report the whole thing to Scotland Yard, or MI-5 or whomever.” Hera said. She was tall enough that she didn’t have to stand on tip-toe or crane her neck to see over the crowd. “This way” She said taking point.

 

I quickly followed on her heals, and Edric grabbed my hand. In twining his fingers with mine with a sweet grin. “I will say this Evelyn. You keep things interesting.”

_Hera may have had a point about him._ I didn’t have to time to contemplate how I felt about it now, however, as Hera made a sharp left turn and I darted after her.

 

We followed the mystery man a couple more blocks as surreptitiously as possible. But eventually the foot traffic began to lighten and he could not fail to notice the fact that he was being followed.

 

He broke into a run, and turned down an alley. Without thinking I took off after him...

 

“EVELYN!” Edric shouted, he and Hera taking to their heels in pursuit of me. “God Damn it Woman. Wait!”

 

I didn’t stop. I followed the man down an alley and around a corner and came to a sudden halt. I was in the intersection of the back alleys of several buildings and wheeling around I had lost sight of the German- speaking mystery man.

 

And then the air-raid siren went off. 

 

“Well those bombers certainly have an impeccable sense of timing.” Hera said, with her usual dry wit.

 

I listened. The low humming of Messerschmitts could be hear faintly in the night air. The distant ack-ack-ack of anti aircraft fire began. But there was something else ….

 

“We need to go, get to a shelter.” Edric urged. 

 

“Where are we anyway?” I asked.

 

“We are near Divine street.” Hera said. “There is a funk hole a few blocks away I think.” A light clicked on in my head.

 

“Divine! That was one of the words they said. In German.”

 

“Well that’s one mystery solved.” Hera said.

 

“We can solve the rest when we get to the shelter.” Edric said, grabbing my hand once again.

 

“No wait.” I urged, refusing to be moved. I still heard something else.

 

“Evelyn…” Edric said, frustration starting to fray his voice.

 

“Shhh.” I hissed.  “Listen.”

 

_The scream of the air-raid siren, the stutter of the anti-air craft fire, a rumble of German bombers, a bang of a bomb exploding…_

“Yep.” Edric said, giving my hand another tug “Sounds like the Blitz.”

 

“No. _Really_ listen.” I said stubbornly

_Wail of the air-raid siren, boom of a bomb, ack-ack-ack: anti aircraft fire, hum of a plane engine… “Someone help me!” A low voice, distant._

 

“Wait what was that?” Edric said

 

It came again “Please, someone help me!”

 

“Oh my god.” Hera said as I started off in the direction of the sound, the other two at my heels.

 

I hurried down a dark and grimy alley and around another corner before I was bowled over from the side. The mystery man, Tall and fair though looking far less dapper in this dank alley, had thrown me up against the wall of the alley. Lights popped in front of my eyes as the man slammed my head hard into the brick wall. Further down the alley I saw a group of men, in dark grey coats holding down an old woman. She had pewter hair and despite her age and circumstances had a proud sort of bearing.

 

“Who are you?” The man hissed with sour breath in my ear, a crushing hand around my throat. I struggled and squirmed trying to hit or scratch any piece of his flesh I could get a hold of.

 

“Hey!” Hera’s voice roared behind him. The man strangling me spun just in time to get decked squarely in the jaw by her, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. I gasped in a rasping breath and staggered, struggling to stay upright.

 

Edric’s arms caught me. “Evelyn!” His voice was colored with an emotion I had never heard in it before.

 

From the other end of the alley the old woman was still struggling against her captors. “Run while you can! Warn them!” She shouted at us.

 

_Warn who?_

 

From down the alleyway roared a voice that must have belonged to the leader “Keep the prisoner still! Deal with the intruders!!” I caught the glimpse of a face, A horrible inhuman face, haughty and cruel.

 

Guns appeared in the hands of the men down the alleyway. Edric spun me around putting himself in between me and gunmen, his action would have pinned me against the wall, but where wall should have been, my back found nothing but empty air. Tipping backwards I tumbled down a staircase, and fell hard against a doorway. One that must have lead to a cellar.

 

I staggered trying to right myself and make it back to my friends.

 

The sounds of shots rang out.

 

Then the whole world exploded.

 

*** 

I awoke in darkness. Everything seemed to throb painfully. My ears were ringing. I could smell fire, or maybe it was ash. The coppery taste of blood was in my mouth.

 

A bomb, it must have been a bomb. I was sitting in a dusty darkness. I tried to sit up and found that I couldn’t. I was trapped, pressed into a small space by brick and stone. Panic started to well up in me. _How long had a been here? Where were the others? Edric? Hera? What if I couldn’t get out. Would I run out of air?_

I began to scream. “Help! Help I’m down here. Please!!” My voice was raw, and my throat burned and raged against the effort of yelling. “I’m trapped! Please.” Silence and the dull thud of distant bombs falling answered me.

 

I tried to relax to be calm and rational. _If there were bombs still falling, I couldn’t have been down here long._ I took a deep calming breath and felt a small breeze of night air on my face. _So there was some airflow. I wouldn’t suffocate._ If I could hold out, someone might find me in the rubble I just had to hold out... My head throbbed.

 

I wasn’t sure how much time passed. I was coming in and out of consciousness, or perhaps I kept falling asleep. I was having strange dreams. Full of fog and spiders.  I scrambled around in a sickly green darkness, running from something, or possibly I was running _towards_ something. There was a voice, a female voice. Kind and angelic like a golden light to calling me.

 

I would wake back up in the cramped ashy darkness, then fall back into the green fog of the dream. Over and over again until one time I awoke to sounds. Voices and shifting rock.

 

“Heeey” I shouted my voice cracked and dry. “HELP!! I’m in here! I’m here!!”

 

A chink of light appeared, and then another. Hands appeared and hoisted me into the grey light of an ashy dawn. I emerged into a sepia toned world. Everything was coated in dust, and the air was heavy with smoke. Large swaths of London must have been burning. The sliver of sun that was peaking over the horizon was a hellish shade of red, casting an apocalyptic burnt orange glow. It seemed amazing that anything in London was still standing.

 

“Well, fancy meeting you here Blue.” Said a voice by my side. I blinked and Varric’s face came into focus.

 

“Mr. Tethras.” I said trying to stand up, my legs nearly gave out and Varric had to wrap and arm around me to keep me upright.

 

“Take it easy there, you’ve had a rough night.”

 

“How did you find me?” He shrugged.

 

“You have some luck, Blue.”

 

 _Some luck._ People were sorting through the rubble Rescue workers, air raid wardens, ordinary citizens were digging through the rubble, searching for other survivors. On the street laid out neatly in a row were bodies. I felt my throat threaten to close. _No, Please, No._

 

“Hera… Edric…” They were there, lying on the pavement. Their bodies were broken, crushed and mangled, but it was definitely them.

 

Dead. _They were dead._ My legs gave way for real this time. I narrowly avoided a collision with the rubble below me as Varric caught me. He picked me up easily and deposited me on the curb.

 

“Easy, Easy.” Heard Varric voice say as though he was soothing a wild horse.

 

“They’re dead.” I said numbly.

 

“Yes, I am sorry.”

 

“Oh my god.” I felt sick. “Oh my god.” I sunk my head into my lap and focused on breathing. Pushing back the tide of panic. _Edric’s laugh, the way his hand felt in mine. Gone. Hera, my best friend, her strength and passion gone. All just gone._ “Its all my fault.”

 

“Come now I don’t think you can possibly take credit for a bomb falling.”

 

“We weren’t meant to be here, We should have still been at the Savoy,  But I overheard the German and I made them follow.”

 

 _The German! What had happened to him?_ I stood up, adrenaline suddenly coursing through my system and wandered over to the bodies. Sure enough he was there. Coated in dust and bits of building like the rest of them. It didn’t seem right that he was laid out right next to my friends.

 

“German, what German?” Varric said.

 

I pointed “There were two men speaking in German outside the ladies’ room at the savoy. They were saying things… scary things… I got a picture of one” I reached down to my camera but found it shattered and splintered. Film hanging out like innards. _Fuck._  “There’s the other.”

 

“What are you talking about Blue?” Varric said slowly

 

“I convinced Hera and Edric, we should follow him... We shouldn’t have done that…”

 

“Miss Wick…” Varric said slowly like he was trying to make sure I wouldn’t spook “What happened when you followed him?”

 

“We followed him here. There were others they were hurting a woman.” I scanned the faces of the dead and I found her “This woman.” I said pointing “and he attacked us, the German from the savoy and… there was a leader…” I looked around searching for the arrogant and brutal face I had caught a glimpse of in the moonlight. He wasn’t there. “He is missing. He’s not here.”

 

“Who’s missing? The leader?” Varric asked

 

I sat back down. I must have been imagining things, this was all insane. The face had been sort of terrifying visage that the one would find in a nightmare. Maybe I had dreamed him, or hallucinated him. I did just have a bomb dropped on me after all. That was bound to scramble your brains a bit.

 

I gave a breathy and hysterical laugh. “I must sound mad. I think I took a bump to the head.”

 

“Yea, maybe.” Varric said giving me a wary expression. He pressed a canteen of water into my hands, and I sipped gratefully.

 

“I fell down some steps that lead to the outer door of a basement. I was there when the bomb hit. That’s probably why I lived.” My eyes drifted back towards Edric and Hera.

 

_It wasn’t fair. That I should have lived when they died, just feet away._

Hera had a mom, in Devonshire, and two brothers in the RAF. I would have to call them. And I would have to tell the office about Edric, they could notify his next of kin. They would also want me to write up a personal account of the bombing for the paper.

 

“I need to go to the office. They need to know, with a bombing this bad there will be a lot to do.” I stood up and took a look around.

 

“You spent the night under a pile of rubble. You need to go to a hospital.”

 

I looked own at myself. I was filthy and streaked in places with blood. My black cocktail dress from the night before was ruined. No amount of ‘mending and making do’ would salvage it. My stockings were also beyond repair. I was down to two pairs. Stockings were hard to get with the wartime rationing.

 

“I’m fine.” I said stubbornly. “I just need a cup coffee and a change of clothes, and I have both at the office.”

 

Varric gave a world weary sigh. “Alright yea, But if you’re doing the whole stiff-upper-lip-British-bit, you should be drinking tea not coffee.” He pulled a hanker chief out of his pocket and handed it to me, I tried to wipe away some of the worst of the grime.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Where’s your building?”

 

“You don’t need to trouble yourself, I can make it there on my own, really. I don’t need your help.”

 

“Never said you did, but you're getting it anyway Blue.”

 

I hesitated my independent nature warring against the practical. The practical finally won. “It’s the red building on Temple street. You know it?”

 

Varric nodded. “Yea I know it, I have a car a few blocks away.”

 

I stood up and followed him for a few blocks, feeling much more steady on my feet than I had a few minutes ago.

 

We drove mostly in silence. I was grateful he didn’t try to maintain a conversation. I didn’t have the energy.

 

When we neared Temple street I knew immediately that something was wrong. Crowds ringed the block, and black smoke rose in columns. In front of the office building fireman were putting out the last embers of a blaze.

 

The London offices of _The Conclave_ were gone.

 

“Well shit.” I heard Varric grumble as I climbed out of the car and jogged down the block.

 

“Mr. Roderick!” I shouted, spotting my boss’s profile amongst the crowd.

 

“Miss Wick. There you are!” Roderick grumbled. “It would seem we are without offices.”

 

“Jesus Wick” Alan Cooper, another coworker of mine, said, giving me the once over. “You look like hell. You miss your beauty sleep?”

 

“Something like that.” I mumbled Cooper always was an ass, and had a tendency to be handsy, it was best just to ignore him.

 

“She got a house dropped on her. She should be in a hospital.” Varric said sauntering in behind me.

 

 “May I ask who you are.” Cooper replied arrogantly, his eyebrows raising and his voice taking on a suggestive leer. “Are you an _acquaintance_ of Miss Wicks?”

 

Varric didn’t miss my coworker’s insinuation. “Varric Tethras, at your service.” Varric said doffing his hat. “Was helping clear some rubble when the rescue crews found this one” Varric said pointing at me. “Seeing as she stubbornly declined the hospital, I thought the least I could do was to give the lady a lift. She was quite determined to get to work. I gotta admire the girl’s grit.”

 

Cooper at least had the grace to look a little ashamed.

 

“Well Jones and Cadash have still yet to show up.”

 

“Mr. Cadash is dead.” I said, finding myself unable to make eye contact with anyone as I said it.

 

“How do you…” Mr. Roderick began.

 

“We…” I hesitated. I couldn’t tell them the whole story “That is to say… Mr. Cadash was walking Hera Adaar and me home from the Savoy last night when the bombs started… We never made it to a shelter…” I said I could feel my lip start to tremble, but I would NOT loose my composure here in front of my boss and the men I worked with.

 

Roderick mumbled something under his breath about women in war zones.

 

“Are we going to move offices sir?” I asked pretending I had not heard him.

 

“We’ll work from my rooms at the Savoy for the time being.”

 

“Very good.”

 

“But not you.” He said harshly, pointing at me. “You go home, get cleaned up.”

 

“Sir I can…” I protested, frustration bubbling up inside of me.

 

“I wasn’t asking, Miss Wick. You’re a right mess, and we can’t have you fainting on us. I don’t want to see you there any earlier than tonight.”

 

“Yes sir…” I said feeling defeated.

 

“Come on Miss Wick.” Varric said. “I would be happy to give you a lift.”   I was absurdly grateful that he had not used the moniker ‘Blue’ in front of my coworkers. That would have sounded overly familiar and added fuel the fire of Mr. Cooper’s salacious rumors.

 

“Are they always like that?” Varric asked as we climbed back into his car.

 

“No. Usually they ask me why I haven’t made them their coffee yet.”

 

“Well, Shit.”

 

 

***

 

When we pulled up to my building I was glad it wasn’t flattened as well. Varric moved to stop me as I opened the door. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small business card.

 

I looked at the card. It read “The Hanged Man, 103 Kirkwall Road.  Soho.” It also listed a telephone number.

 

“What is this?” I asked.

 

“My preferred traditional English pub. It reeks of piss and stale ale.”

 

“Name is a bit macabre.”

 

“It is a bit of a macabre joint, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

 

“But why give me…”

 

“I keep rooms above the pub. If you ever need anything. Don’t hesitate to call. Us storytellers got to stick together.”

 

“Thank you.” I said earnestly. “Wait… you _live_ above this place?” I gave him an incredulous look. Varric Tethras, was an internationally renowned name, a best selling author, member of the merchant’s guild. He could afford almost any rooms in the city, and he choose to slum it rooms above a dive called ‘The hanged man’?

 

He smiled and gave a shrug “What can I say, I am fond of the place. Plus the ‘good old boy, blue blood crowd from the merchant’s guild wouldn’t be caught dead in there. Keeps them out of my hair.”

 

I laughed. It was a miraculous thing, a laugh, after the night that had just happened. 

 

“Thank you Mr. Tethras.”

 

“Varric.”

 

“Thank you Varric.”

 

“Catch you later Blue.” I climbed out of the car and Varric pulled away.

 

 I walked wearily up the steps to my flat. I was greeted by a petite blond ball of nervous energy that was my flat mate.

 

“Oh my goodness! Thank god your home!” Lana Lavellan said in her sweet welsh voice. Pulling me into a deep hug. “When I got home from my shift at the hospital and you and Hera weren’t here, I thought… Oh Evelyn I have been so worried!” She pulled back and stared at me in the face. “Oh, but you look awful! What happened? Where’s Hera?”

 

I felt my throat get thick and I felt a strong pressure behind my eyes. “She… She…” I couldn’t hold back anymore. I burst into tears. Hot rasping sobs.

 

Lana quickly folded me into her arms. Even as she started to cry herself. “Oh my. Shhh now. Shhhh… We will get you cleaned up, and a nice cup of tea.”

 

Lana Lavellan was a caretaker, a healer, to the last. Even after what must have been a horrible night at the hospital tending to wounded. She drew me a hot bath, and tended to all my bumps and scrapes. I got handed that British cure-all, a hot cup of tea, (to which I am pretty sure she added a healthy dose of the brandy she kept hidden under the sink.)

 

Together we called Hera’s family in Devonshire. Her official funeral would be there. We decided to have a less official wake at our local pub, the Sacred Ashes, on Saturday.

 

Then after catching a few hours sleep I was headed back to the Savoy and to work.

 

That is what life in the Blitz was. You just kept on. People can get acclimatized to quite a lot. London had become acclimatized to death.

 

I wrote an article about what it had been like to be buried underneath that pile or rubble. It was short. I left out any allusion to the mystery of the German speakers.

 

The month of peace and quiet seemed like a cruel joke. The hunted expression had returned to the eyes of Londoners. Over the next few days the estimated death toll rose, settling at eleven hundred people dead.

 

Elven hundred in one night. It had been the worst night of the Blitz yet.

 

A horrible word, yet.

 

***

 

It was Saturday, and the night of our unofficial memorial for Hera came. I was running late when I left The Conclave’s impromptu offices at the savoy to make my way to the Sacred Ashes pub. I found my plans interrupted by German bombers, I spent several long and uncomfortable hours in a funk hole.

 

By the time I reached the Sacred Ashes in the early hours of the morning. The pub was gone. So was Lana, as well as almost a dozen of our friends who had come there to celebrate the life of Hera Adaar.

 

An estimated twelve hundred people perished Saturday April 19 1941. It had been the most destructive night of bombings yet.

 

Yet.

 

*** 

 

Broadcast of Edward R. Murrow, CBS. April 16 1941…

_This is London… If the morning communique doesn’t say that London was the main objective of German Bombers tonight, I shall be surprised. They came over shortly after blackout time, and openly attacked with a veritable shower of flares and incendiaries. It is one of those nights where you wear your best clothes, because when you come home you are never sure that you will have anything other than the clothes you are wearing. Tonight having been thrown against the wall by a blast, which feels like nothing so much as being hit with a feather covered sword, and having lost our third office, which looks as though some crazy giant had been operating an egg beater in its interior, I naturally conclude that the bombing has been heavy.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic was born on a plane while I was reading a non-fiction book on WWII and it occurred to my how well the cast of Inquisition could fit into the historical setting of resistance fighters during the war. I never intended to actually write it, but once the idea was in my head it kept growing head until I had to put it down on paper, just to keep it from rattling around in there.
> 
> I have tried to pull from as many historical sources as possible to make this fiction as accurate as possible. But that said it is a fiction and I am attempting to pull a story from high fantasy into a real world historical period. Also I am not a historian, so there will be inaccuracies aplenty. If you are interested in the real history of the War, The Blitz, and the brave men and women of the SOE and European resistance movements (which is fascinating) I encourage you to go read about them. I will be posting some book recommendations as I go along. This Chapter’s recommendation is Citizens of London: The Americans who Stood with Britain in it’s Darkest, Finest Hour, by Lynne Olsen. It is SO worth a read. 
> 
> Please forgive me, updates to this story will be painfully slow. I am writing this as I go along instead of posting from pre-written drafts, and I have a lot going on in my life, as well as another fiction that needs attention. 
> 
> Thank you all for your understanding. As always please let me know if you find any typos and I love hear your feedback.

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic was born on a plane while I was reading a non-fiction book on WWII and it occurred to my how well the cast of Inquisition could fit into the historical setting of resistance fighters during the war. I never intended to actually write it, but once the idea was in my head it kept growing head until I had to put it down on paper, just to keep it from rattling around in there.
> 
> I have tried to pull from as many historical sources as possible to make this fiction as accurate as possible. But that said it is a fiction and I am attempting to pull a story from high fantasy into a real world historical period. Also I am not a historian, so there will be inaccuracies aplenty. If you are interested in the real history of the War, the blitz, and the brave men and women of the SOE and European resistance movements (which is fascinating btw) I encourage you to go read about them. I will be posting some book recommendations as I go along. This chapter’s recommendation is Citizens of London: The Americans who Stood with Britain in it’s Darkest, Finest Hour, by Lynne Olsen. It is SO worth a read. 
> 
> Please forgive me, updates to this story will be painfully slow. I am writing this as I go along instead of posting from pre-written drafts, and I have a lot going on in my life, as well as another fiction that needs attention. 
> 
> Thank you all for your understanding. As always please let me know if you find any typos and I love hear your feedback.


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